Deadly Vows Read Online Free PDF Page B

sound coming from the front of the gallery.
    She raced through the empty back chamber. “Who is there?”
    There was no answer.
    Frustration arose. She turned, jamming the gun into her waistband again, reaching with both hands for the oil painting. To her shock, it did not budge.
    It wasn’t hanging on the wall by a wire; it was nailed.
    She jerked on it again. It did not move.
    And that was when she heard a lock clicking loudly in the dark.
    She whirled to face the front door, expecting to see someone standing there, grinning at her. Instead, she saw a flash of movement outside of the gallery as someone ran up the steps to the sidewalk.
    She cried out. Francesca ran to the door and seized it—but it was locked from outside as she had expected.
    She cried out again, furiously, and tugged on the doorknob again. It did not budge.
    Stunned, she stood there, the knob in her hands, the horror beginning.
    She had just been locked in.
    How was she going to get out? How was she going to get to her wedding?
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    C ALDER H ART STARED OUT of the window of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church’s second-floor lounge, feeling very pleased. He was already in his tuxedo, althoughhe had yet to don his tie. Fifth Avenue was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had left town for the summer—except, of course, for those at the uppermost crust of New York society who lived in awe—or fear—of Julia Van Wyck Cahill.
    The avenue was terribly attractive this way, in such a state of splendid desolation, with only a single carriage and two black hansoms traversing its paved streets. Stately mansions, elegant townhomes, exclusive shops and clubs lined the thoroughfare. Only three coaches were parked outside the church; it was far too early for guests to arrive. He glanced at a grandfather clock in one corner of the dressing room. It was a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. His gaze wandered back outside. Surely he wasn’t looking for his bride—he was not superstitious, but he had no wish to see her before the wedding, just in case. He smiled to himself. He had little doubt that Francesca was already in the church with her sister and mother, frantically applying the finishing touches to her toilette, as if she could possibly be made any more beautiful.
    A few months ago, if someone had told him he would be at a wedding as the groom, he would have been very amused—and he would have considered that person an absolute fool. Yet there he was, with a racing heart and a touch of nerves.
    â€œHey, Calder,” Rourke Bragg said, laughter in his quiet tone. “Are you planning a mad dash for the exit yet?”
    He took one last look at the quiet avenue. Two roundsmen in blue serge, carrying billy sticks, were standing on the street corner, chatting. Hart suspected they would soon be directing traffic.
    He slowly turned to face the young man who had spoken. Rourke took after his father, Rathe Bragg. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair, amber eyes and a sun-kissed, almost swarthy, complexion. Healso had Rathe’s inherently sunny, optimistic nature. He was actually Rick’s half brother, but having been taken in by the Bragg family at the age of nine, when their mother died, Hart considered him a relation, if not a sibling of sorts.
    He also happened to like Rourke, who was in medical school and was devoted to his profession. He had not one hypocritical bone in his body.
    Speaking of hypocrites, Rick Bragg had yet to arrive. He had only spent a half an hour last night with them at the private room they had taken in the Sherry Netherland to celebrate the last of Hart’s bachelor days. Hart smiled grimly. He rarely bested his perfect brother. He had surely bested him now.
    He would never forget that once, months ago, Rick had been smitten with his bride. But Francesca was marrying him.
    The satisfaction welled. It was savage.
    â€œHe must be sweating bullets,” Rourke’s younger brother,